One of my most favorite posts from someone on Tumbler. From Sir Kris. Just wanna share it to the people of Blogger. :)

I long for that guy
who can make me put my pen down. He will turn off the monitor when I start typing away just to annoy me, sit on my lap, kiss me, while I continue tapping the keyboard blindly. I will probably go on a very long hiatus, long enough for everyone to forget my existence. But I won’t care. Some will try to find me, attempting to see if I am writing elsewhere, but I am not. The time they spend finding my whereabouts I spend out in the park, walking or doing the groceries with him. Then I will never have to write again, and he asks “Why are you no longer writing?” as he hands me a hot cup of coffee, urging me to write. I can’t answer this, of course. It’s too difficult to admit that I can only write about sadness, and too mushy to tell it’s all because of him. So I sip from the cup, and evade the question by smiling and complimenting the coffee. He smiles back and hugs me from behind, then I no longer need to have and hold a pen again.

Gray

                                                  All over,
                                                I am shades
                                              of  gray.  I am
                                              ash, the hue of
                                                death.  I am
                                                      the
                                                      ab-
                                           sence of vigor and
                                        zest. I am neutrality, I
                                     take both sides, I take no
                                  sides.     I am neither      white
                                nor           black.  I am         less
                              than           gold,    duller          than
                             co-             balt.    I fade,           I wi-
                                              ther. I am dis-
                                             colored.    I am
                                            washed-out. I am
                                           as firm      as steel,
                                           as fee-         ble as
                                           age. I           am the
                                          the in-            sipid,
                                         sound,            & safe.                                         
                                         I am                 risk-
                                    less. I am              certain. I'm
                                 everything.                 I'm nothing.

I am the pavement you walk on, I am the cosmos you stare at. At the lightest, you will run into me. At the utmost, you will live by me. I am gray, I am every shade of it.

Counterfeit

It’s when the smile solaces your ails,

when in truth, it curves for your laments and your wails


It’s when the sight regales your spirit,

when in reality, it thirsts for a portion of your guilt


It’s when the words play finely to your ears,

when actually, they long to see the rushing of your tears


It’s when the touch carresses the skin,

when indeed, it digs your actuality and scratches it keen


It’s when the company assures you of tomorrow and permanence,

when in actuality, it shuts out every chance of your subsistence


It’s when the very being partakes in your breath’s reel,

when truly, it attempts to shoot an arrow at your heel


It’s when I do,

when I really don’t.




Because I know trickery



inside out.

A Farewell

I:

Were those flowers I caught sight of

Wilting, bowing to the ever shimmering sun?

Creases surfacing on its once shiny cutis,

One by one, petals kissing the ground

.

Was that a sword I heard

Slowly being drawn from its sheath?

Breaking its fealty with lethargy,

A clank, a castback, a swing

.

Were those waves I touched

Drifting away from the sandy plain?

Ripples assembling in the vast mellow,

The shores, one, two, and gone

.

You:

No. I said… goodbye.

Longing

In my silence,

I heard you.

When will the outcries of the world

slip away from existence,

Just so I can listen to you.

In my dreams,

I felt you.

When will I ever learn

to deceive waking up,

Just so I can touch you.

Of Labels

Labels are futile social constructions. In a world where things overlap like a hundred circles in a Venn diagram, branding does not seem to make sense. Single, in a relationship, homosexual, hetero, top, bottom, why care? As long as you’re happy, you don’t need to mind.

You Should Not Date a Communication Researcher

You should not date a communication researcher.

He is hard-to-get. He thinks he is special because he knows there are only a few like him. True enough, he might even be the first communication researcher you’ve met.

Winning an argument over him is like a snowball’s chance in hell. He will make the most out of his expertise in theories. He has every reason in the world! He will throw incomprehensible -isms to you like they’re just lucid justifications. You would wish you didn’t even start to engage in the bicker.

He is a perfectionist. His hobby is revision, especially if things do not go his way. He will tell you to retire smoking and drinking, he will ask you to walk faster, he will shut you up. Worse, he can scrap a relationship as easy as disposing papers he’s not content with.

He won’t have time for you. You couldn’t blame him; it’s the nature of what he does. If you’re unfortunate, you would chance upon someone who’s on theory grounding. He will literally have to remind himself of your dates through post-its and mobile phone reminders.

He has trust issues. Validity and reliability is of utmost significance to him. He has an internal code book where he can construe even the slightest flick of your finger. So be wary of your actions.

Most of all, he is boring. He will talk about theories, variables, and measures nonstop. He will acquaint you with Focault and Barthes and Althusser. His room does not have framed paintings or photographs but is a library of scholarly journals and photocopied researches. His laptop is filled not with music and videos but gathered data and more academic writings. He will exhaust you of dullness!

Do not date a communication researcher.

Still, a communication researcher loves beyond compare. He does. And no qualitative or quantitative approach can measure the affection he devotes.